The Beige Man (2 page)

The other patrol cars were quickly called to the scene, and officers began searching the surrounding area, the beams of their flashlights flickering among the trees. The ground was very hilly and the dense undergrowth difficult to penetrate. On one side the ground fell away steeply toward a stream, while on the other it climbed sharply up Alfred Gärdesväg, leading to Delsjö swimming area.

There was a boarded-up brick building a few dozen meters down the slope. It wasn’t very big, and had probably been used to store tools. Instead of windows and doors, all the openings were covered with thick hardboard. The whole place was in a state of advanced decay. It was probably still standing only because it hadn’t yet decided in which direction to collapse. Several police officers surrounded the building, trying to move as quietly as possible. They were breathing hard, their breath misty in the cold night air. The atmosphere was tense because they had no idea whether the car thieves were armed. One officer crept forward to a damaged sheet of hardboard partly covering the doorway. She pressed her back against the wall and drew her gun. A colleague followed her, a crowbar in his hand.

“This building is surrounded!” an officer shouted from the other side. “You might as well give up right now! Come out with your hands up!”

There wasn’t a sound from inside the derelict structure. The cold crackled in the branches of the trees, and the frozen grass crunched whenever one of the officers changed position. Apart from that, there was silence in the darkness. The female officer by the door nodded to her colleague, who quickly forced the crowbar under the broken board. He leaned on the shaft with all his strength and pushed as hard as he could. With a creak, the board came away and fell to the ground. The officer quickly positioned himself by the wall on the other side of the door and switched on his flashlight. Keeping his head well back, he directed the beam through the opening, moving it across the compact darkness of the interior.

No movement. Nothing.

After a while both officers slipped cautiously inside. A few tense seconds later came the sound of surprised exclamations, mixed with sniggering and slightly hysterical laughter.

“There’s nothing to worry about—it’s just some animal!” shouted the male officer.

“It’s coming out!” his colleague added.

A small shape came waddling out through the doorway, blinking in confusion in the bright light. It raised it snout toward the cold, starry sky and sniffed suspiciously. This time, the odd burst of laughter came from the officers standing outside, and they turned away their flashlights. It was way too cold for a badger to be out and about, so it simply turned around and lumbered back inside. It almost collided with the two officers in the doorway; they stepped aside and allowed the sleepy animal to return to its winter bed, then they came out and assured everyone that there were no human beings in the building.

Meanwhile, a van arrived and parked up on the road.

“The dogs are here,” the female officer stated.

“Great. Searching in the dark is impossible. They could be anywhere in the forest,” her colleague said.

The sound of excited barking could be heard as soon as the back door of the van was opened and the dogs realized it was time to work.

The fact that the thieves had managed to set fire to the car turned out to be a major problem. The dogs sniffed eagerly in and around the vehicle, but neither of them seemed able to pick up a viable trail. The smell of smoke was too strong, and had eradicated every other scent inside the car. Instead, the two dog handlers began moving outward from the BMW in circles. One of the German shepherds suddenly whimpered eagerly and started up the slope leading to Alfred Gärdesväg. The tension rose among the search team, and they all headed away from the badger’s house and up toward the road. The second dog had started dragging its handler in the same direction at almost the same moment. Both dogs stopped in front of an old root cellar, well concealed behind a dense thicket of small fir trees. It was furnished with a new-looking, sturdy wooden door. Fresh marks could be seen around the metal
hasp; it had been broken open with such force it was hanging by only one screw. The heavy padlock lay on the ground. The dogs got very excited and started watching the door.

“They’re hiding in there,” the female officer whispered.

She couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice. Her partner also felt the thrill of the chase. He crept over to the little door and stood to one side. Quietly he slipped the crowbar into the small gap by the broken lock. Every flashlight beam was directed at the door, and the officer in charge gave the signal to open it. The door swung wide open with a loud creak, and the light shone into the depths of the cellar.

There are moments when time simply stops. Even the dogs fell silent.

D
ETECTIVE
I
NSPECTOR
I
RENE
Huss was feeling stressed as she turned into the parking lot in front of police HQ in Göteborg. She scurried in through the main door, waving a greeting to the middle-aged officer sitting behind the glass at the information desk. The waiting room was already full of people who had come, willingly or rather more reluctantly, to meet a representative of the police force. Irene hurried over to the glass door and swiped her card. The lock clicked and she stepped into the hallway. As she entered the elevator, she glanced at the clock on the wall, relieved to confirm that she still had at least five minutes to spare before morning prayer began. For that reason she was somewhat surprised when she walked into the Violent Crimes Unit to find the chief waiting impatiently outside the conference room where morning briefings usually took place.

“We’ve already started,” Superintendent Sven Andersson said grimly.

Irene Huss knew perfectly well that she was often the last member of the team to arrive, but if you’re not a morning person, there’s not much you can do about it. At the same time, she made a point of never arriving late. At the last minute, perhaps, but never late. She usually had time to take off her coat, say good morning to Tommy Persson, with whom she shared an office and get herself a cup of coffee before strolling into the briefing.

“The car wouldn’t start … it’s too old for this weather,” she said by way of an apology.

Which was perfectly true.

“Coffee?” she ventured, smiling at her boss.

“Later,” he snapped, marching into the conference room.

Irene sighed. She had a bad feeling as she walked in and saw that the others were already there. She immediately noticed the high level of tension in the air—it was almost tangible. She could tell something extraordinary had happened. With a nod to everyone in general and no one in particular, she quickly sat down on the nearest chair and tried to look attentive.

“It’s been a busy night, as I’m sure you’re all aware,” the superintendent began.

Irene wasn’t aware of that at all, but realized this wasn’t the time to say so. She leaned back in her chair, making every effort to appear totally up to speed with the night’s events.

“As usual the morning paper got most things wrong, but the local radio report was more or less correct. Apart from the girl. They didn’t know about her, but the evening papers have gotten a hold of that information,” he went on. He peered over the top of his cheap reading glasses with a grim expression.

To Irene’s relief, Tommy Persson put up his hand like a well-behaved schoolboy and asked, “What’s happened? I missed the morning news. I had to scrape the ice off my windshield, then I had to ask my neighbor to help get the car started with jumper cables. I didn’t even have time to look at the paper before I left.”

The superintendent stuck out his lower lip and glared at Tommy, which didn’t help; Persson still had no idea what had been going on. Andersson sighed loudly and continued.

“At twenty-one seventeen last night, we received a report that a car had been stolen on Stampgatan. The owner was busy loading things into his car, which was a BMW
630i. As it was so cold, he left the engine running. The car was parked approximately twenty meters from the main door of the apartment complex, where he had piled up several items he was intending to take with him. Apparently the family is in the process of moving. He had placed a folded stroller in the trunk and had just gotten back to the doorway when he heard the car doors open and close. When he turned around, he saw the car drive off.”

“So he didn’t see who took it?” Birgitta Moberg-Rauhala interjected.

“He did, in fact. Just after he had put the stroller in and closed the trunk, he saw two young men approaching along the sidewalk. According to the description, they were wearing dark, baggy clothes and woolen hats. He said they looked like rappers.”

“Boys wearing huge pants that hang halfway down their ass,” Jonny Blom said with a grin.

Irene was a little surprised. When she bumped into Jonny and his eldest son in Frölunda Square shortly before Christmas, the fifteen-year-old had been wearing baggy jeans and an oversized hoodie. Beneath his knitted hat she could see lumps and bumps that could well have been dreadlocks in the making. Irene sensed conflict within the Blom family.

Andersson pretended that he hadn’t heard Jonny Blom’s contribution and went on. “The witness estimated the age of the boys at between seventeen and twenty-five. They shot away along the tramlines, crossed Västra Folkunga Bridge and continued along Skånegatan. Which means the bastards drove past here a minute or so after taking the car. They headed for Liseberg, then turned off toward Örgrytemotet. They drove to Sankt Sigfridsplan, then out onto Delsjövägen. At the same time, a general call went out over the radio about the theft of the car. A patrol car was parked by the fast food kiosk on Deljsövägen and saw the BMW pass at high speed. They called
it in and set off in pursuit. They gained visual contact with the suspect vehicle and saw it hit a pedestrian just outside the TV studios.”

Andersson paused to clear his throat. “Of course the patrol car stopped at the scene of the accident and called for an ambulance and backup. But it was a hell of a collision. According to the medical examiner, the victim died instantly. The entire skull was crushed. And …” He paused again and swallowed several times before continuing. “The victim was wearing a track suit top with the police logo on it. His face was more or less gone, but … but it seems very likely that he was a police officer.”

The silence in the room was suddenly electric. Everyone stiffened. A colleague. One of them. Someone they perhaps knew.

“Who?” asked Hannu Rauhala. He had been married to Birgitta Moberg-Rauhala for a few years now, and they had a two-year-old son. The superintendent had never gotten over the fact that they had married, but had gradually resigned himself to the situation.

“There are three colleagues who live nearby, although we were able to eliminate one straight away because Kicki Börjesson was in the backup car. Stellan Edwardsson was on duty last night, so we were able to eliminate him as well. Which leaves just one person. He retired some years ago, a little early I think. We’ve tried to get a hold of him on the phone, but no luck so far. He lives alone. I’m sure some of you know him … Torleif Sandberg.”

“Muesli,” Jonny said.

Andersson glared in Jonny’s direction and frowned. However, he didn’t contradict him; everyone had referred to Torleif as Muesli during his time as duty officer. Torleif always had a bowl of yogurt with oat muesli when the others were drinking coffee and eating Danishes. He would tirelessly hold forth to his less-knowledgeable colleagues on the health risks of the sweet pastries. No one had ever been tempted to try the dirty
brown mush he recommended so heartily. His lentil soups, barley grain burgers, root vegetable stews and similar whole-food dishes were equally safe in the refrigerator. No one had ever nibbled away at the mysterious contents of his little foil containers.

“Muesl—Torleif and I started in the force at the same time,” Andersson said, his voice slightly unsteady. He cleared his throat once more before continuing. “As yet we have no definite confirmation that Torleif was the victim of the hit-and-run, but we’re trying to track down his family just in case … We’ll see what happens.”

Irene remembered Torleif Sandberg clearly. His unremarkable appearance with his thin, mousy hair and skinny body hadn’t exactly etched itself in her memory, but she did recall his quirks. Considerate and imperturbable, but a real fanatic when it came to health. He would often talk about his favorite subject: a healthy way of life. This involved a vegetarian diet, exercise, meditation, and of course total abstinence when it came to alcohol. He didn’t even drink low-alcohol beer. His enthusiastic explanations had been met by somewhat muted responses in the staff room, to put it mildly. His colleagues often would tease him gently. He hadn’t liked being called Muesli, which was probably why he never managed to shake off the nickname.

And now there was a chance he might be dead. Run down by car thieves while he was out jogging in his Police Sports Association tracksuit.

Irene’s thoughts were interrupted as the superintendent took a deep breath and exclaimed, “But not only did they run him down, the bastards drove off and left him! Even though the windshield was shattered. A witness saw the guy on the passenger side hanging out of the window, guiding the driver up Töpelsgatan. The car disappeared up the hill. Several patrol cars were sent to the area. At twenty-one forty-six, the glow of
a fire was spotted on a side road. When the patrol arrived, the officers discovered that the little shits had torched the BMW. They managed to put out the fire with the extinguisher in their car. Other patrol teams arrived and started searching the immediate vicinity. Because of the darkness and the difficult terrain, a dog team was brought in. After just a few minutes both dogs drew attention to an old root cellar. The door had been broken open. Inside was a dead body. A girl.”

Irene glanced at her colleagues. They all looked every bit as surprised as she felt.

“A girl? Could she have been one of the people in the car? If they were wearing baggy clothes, it might have been difficult to tell if one of them was a girl.” The theory was put forward by Fredrik Stridh. He was thirty years old, but much to his annoyance he was still regarded as the youngest member of the team. However, he had his head screwed on, and Irene liked working with him.